


Prompt No.7 - Isolation

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [7]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Captivity, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Torture, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 20:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21003884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Alexander is held captive by the British, injured, delirious, being tortured, in agony. John and Gilbert arrive in the aftermath.For Whumptober 2019Prompt No.7 - Isolation





	Prompt No.7 - Isolation

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill. It's not mine. It's all Lin's. And history's.

His fingers went numb fast, faster than his legs did, and far faster than his toes. He blamed it on their state of exposure, not bundled with warm boots, nor wrapped in a large leather coat. They were out in the open, turning red, his fingernails darkening in color. Alexander rolled his head against the brick wall, taking a rattling breath through his cracked lips. He licked them tentatively. A slight shift of his wrists in the manacles left him hissing as his rubbed-raw skin scraped against the icy iron.

“...And...while the...the financial plan is... _ quite _ disastrous, I do suppose that...maybe...oh, I don’t know…” Alexander breathed too hard. His chest caved awkwardly and he choked on a cry. Between words, he gulped shaky breaths. “I--...Perhaps the general...does not…?” He blinked hard to stave off a wave of dizziness. “No. The general does not...know where I am…” Alexander closed his eyes, and opened them to the darkness of the cellar. Days could have passed for all he knew. Or hours. Or mere minutes, though Alexander doubted that by the hunger twisting his stomach and the ache hammering through his joins. He continued to talk, keeping himself company as people flashed in the periphery of his vision. “Indeed, a strange concept...to be...alone. Again. It  _ is _ exhausting. Dear John and...Lafayette...are well, I hope. Yes. They are...fine.”

The scream of the rickety door echoed in the snow-soaked cellar. Alexander ground his teeth at the shriek. He squeezed his eyes shut as white sunlight burned the room, stabbing his eyes, heating his freezing skin. “G’morning!” Alexander croaked, teeth chattering. “A-Are you perhaps here...to deliver food? I  _ am  _ famished! Or water, perhaps? Lord, I am  _ thirsty _ . And I cannot...drink the ice, unfortunately. It...is snowing still...yes? How long has it been? See, I was...delivering a letter in the worst of conditions, you understand, when...when you picked me up. Your hospitality...is immeasurable, and while I do enjoy a...a nice  _ detour  _ in such a warm, welcoming place, I would--”

“Lord Christ, this one talks.” A barrel-chested man sauntered down the stone steps. He turned his head to his companion in the distance.

Alexander continued, “Indeed. I tent...to talk when nervous. How long...have I been here? Answer me that. Or, moreover, am I the...the only one you have? I believe that to be true. Laurens and Lafayette...they are difficult men to catch, see. I am...quite the talker, and all my companions...they do say I talk too much, but what shall I say...to that? There--”

The man crossed the room in two strides. His hand swept back and cracked Alexander across the cheek. Alexander flipped sideways. He giggled, too high-pitched, the sound scratching the insides of his skull, “Ah yes,  _ m-more _ torture--!”

A boot slammed into his head, squishing his cheek into the burning cold floor. Alexander blinked sluggishly. “Comfortable...”

“Be quiet.” The man mumbled. His thick English accent sound oddly clunky to Alexander’s ears. “If you continue, I will gut you.”

Alexander shrugged his eyebrows. “A slow death. There was a...a young man on the island who...always described my death in...vivid detail. See, he used to--”

A swift kick to his stomach left him spitting up bile. Alexander weakly dragged himself away. The man reared back, stomping hard enough to flip him to his back. He swallowed spit and vomit, crying out as hot agony pulsed through his ribs. He held out his shackled hands, eyes squeezed shut, babbling, “All right, all right, I understand, I understand, I will stop talking, please do not continue further.” A hand snagged the material of his coat, dragging him upright. Alexander went boneless, struggling to think coherently. “Please...please stop…”

“Then  _ be quiet _ .” The man’s breath tasted of whiskey and meat, and Alexander’s gut wrenched with hunger. He whimpered, face scrunching against the guttural sensation. He heard a shuffling, a rustling of his pockets, and cracked open his eyes to see the man drop a round bread roll on the ground next to him. He closed his eyes once again and groaned.

Alexander kept his eyes closed even as the man dropped him. When he opened them, the room was empty and he was, once again, alone. He relished the silence. If he talked, the man would become irritated, he learned early on. He would abuse him but leave him within minutes. Alexander far preferred that over the tortuously long interrogation sessions should Alexander keep his mouth shut and wait the man out. Talking left bruises, but at least he knew that, in his state of exhaustion and pain, he would not expose their plans in the war. Yes, it was for the best that he talked, as his captor would quickly leave him in the darkness, fuming from Alexander’s rambling. Unfortunately, the darkness kept his hair up on end, feigning sleep or any sense of relaxation.

Upon first being locked in the cellar, Alexander had panicked. While he wasn’t the most claustrophobic of men, he didn’t find solace in being locked away from the world, distanced from the time of the day and the warmth of the sun. However, the minutes oozed into what Alexander believed to be hours and  _ hours _ of his own heavy breaths, his own scuttering shoes, his own heart a rushing, whirring beat in the hollow of his ears and the center of his throat. Alexander, then, had felt a primal urge for survival. He struggled to surface from his own fear, remembering the hurricane, the darkness, the silence, the suspension in a black abyss of nothing and everything all at once as he twisted in the water and swallowed stomach-fulls of seawater. Alexander had pounded at the door until his voice was gone, chipped into a broken scream, and had sank to the steps. Time stretched on, and eventually, he had found more comfort in the flat ground of the cellar rather than the jagged stone steps.

Alas, that had been where he sat for hours - possibly days, possibly months - and waited. And it left for easier torture from his captors, too. How kind of them.

Alexander stretched his arms out, hands fanned out next to each other as he patted the moist ground for the bread roll. His fingers skimmed over jagged pieces of stone and what he thought to be a worm, before he found the stale bread. It crunched as he pushed his thumbs into it, and crumbled in his lap like ash.

Hesitantly, Alexander brought the bread up to smell. It reeked of mold, the spores likely small but still disgustingly foul nonetheless. For a moment, Alexander contemplated setting it down. Or, perhaps, throwing it against the door to grab his captors’ attention. But then his stomach wrenched tight, tight enough to punch a gasp out of him, and he straightened painfully, swallowed his pride and whatever else rose in his disgust, and took a tentative bite.

His teeth creaked as if they would snap from the hardness of the small loaf. He bit down harder, until his jaw shook, before the bread snapped and popped into his mouth, instantly softening with the saliva pooling on his tongue.

The mold made him gag. His tongue brushed against the fuzz and his stomach heaved involuntarily. But Alexander remembered the days after the hurricane, where he was chewing on leaves and rotting fish that had drowned once the water was swallowed by the ocean once again. He remembered the weeks on ship, where men lost their dinners to sea sickness and were refused all food until daylight. He remembered his mother struggling to scrounge up a meal for her son, let alone herself, as they withered away in the scraggly shack near the shoreline on Nevis. And, so, he choked the bread down. Breathing in quick, he snapped another bite into his mouth, and swallowed. He continued even as his brain screamed at him to stop, even as his gut wanted to purge whatever filth he ate; Alexander closed off his thoughts, and chewed.

As he gulped down the last bit of bread, his jaw ached, his stomach cramped, his cheeks stung from where the sharp edges stabbed him. He settled back against the wall and closed his eyes, smoothing into haze in-between sleep and wakefulness. Weightlessness washed over him, cool and numbing.

The cellar door clicked.

Alexander peeled an eye open.

Ice cold ripped through him. Alexander jerked upright with a gasp. Water soaked his front, dripping from his hair, clinging to his eyelashes. A needle-cold shiver rippled up his spine.

A shadow above him chuckled, empty bucket in hand. “ _ G’morning _ , princess.”

“ _ What...? _ ” Alexander blinked up at the shadowed man.

The barrel-chested bastard - he realized - said, “There’s your water.”

Alexander stiffened. “What?” He licked his lips. The drops rolling down his cheeks and nose hitting his tongue almost made him euphoric, lost in a haze. He scrambled to his feet. A solid palm slammed against his chest. Alexander reeled back, winded.

“Sit down.” The man dropped the bucket. Its clatter reverberated through Alexander’s swollen bones and chattering teeth. He struggled to find his footing. The barrel-chested man stepped forward as Alexander pushed himself off the wall and upright. “Sit down, patriot filth.”

Alexander sighed as casually as he could. “Now--”

The world tilted as the man knocked Alexander’s feet from under him. He yelped mid-flight, smacking against the dirt with a soundless scream as his back hit the ground, his head cracking against the cellar floor. Pain flared high in his ribs as the man rammed his boot forward into Alexander’s chest again and again until Alexander scrambled to stop him, curling around the man’s foot, clinging to his pant leg. “S-St’p…”

“Scum.” The man pulled his other foot back. Alexander blinked up. A shoe heel rocketed towards his skull.

\--

“Mama…” Alexander kneaded his small, chubby hands into the dough below him. Seagulls squawked in the distance, the lull of the nearby shoreline filling the silence. His mother glanced up at him, tilting her head to the side as Alexander continued, “Do you want to leave home?”

She rocked into the dough in front of her, dragging the heel of her palm through the fluffy mush with practiced care. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”

Alexander shrugged. “I...am not sure.” He hesitated for a moment, glancing over his bread dough, before saying, “I wish to adventure, mama. To go elsewhere. Can we?”

“Do not forget the salt, love.” His mother said softly.

He reached across the table, pinching his fingers in the salt bowl and dusting the dough in the white crystals. “Mama, do you want to adventure?”

His mother smiled bitterly. “Where do you wish to go, love?”

“Go?” He stopped kneading the bread and huffed. “A place with land. Only land. No water. I tire of the sea!” His mother’s soft laugh warmed his heart. “And animals! I wish to see animals, like in the stories you tell me! Perhaps I will be a great explorer, too!”

“You could be so much, my love.” His mother cooed.

Alexander pounded at his dough more. The seagulls honked louder. The waves crashed heavier. With a large breath of determination, Alexander slammed his fist into the bread and said, “I will do so much, mama. Just you wait!”

“And wait I will.” she said. Her eyes warmed him against the sudden gusts of winds, her smile light and soft. “--”

The rush of the waves drowned her voice. Alexander frowned. Her lips moved but no sound followed. His feet went cold, too cold, and Alexander yelped as water flooded into the house, pouring in through the cracks of the door, through the opened window, bubbling up from underground. He leapt back, screaming, “Mama!” The sky went black, the sunlight disappearing in a breath, darkness overtaking all of Alexander senses as he reached out for his mother. “Mama!” He choked on the ocean, water pooling in his lungs, his gut, drowning him from the inside out.

“Alexander!”

His eyes snapped open. “Mama!” Alexander flailed briefly in a crushing hold, the cold numbing the biting fear swelling in his chest. He kicked weakly, wailing, “No! _ Please! _ I don’t want to die!”

“Hush,  _ mon lion _ .”

Alexander stilled. He gasped around tears, relaxing instantly. The blue light of the moon flooded into the cellar, a soft white washing the frightening chill out of the room as Alexander took a shuddering breath, slowly realizing he was cradled in a pair of warm arms. “Laf...” he whispered. The Frenchman’s frizzy curls looked like a halo in the glow of the moonlight. Distantly, he could make out his weak smile.

“Indeed,  _ lion _ . Now sleep. I will protect you.” Gilbert pulled Alexander closer to him, twisting around to the sound of footsteps. Alexander knew he should be struggling, fighting to get away from the barrel-chested man who was stomping down the stairs at that exact moment, but he couldn’t find himself caring. He heard the hum of Gilbert’s voice, Alexander’s ear pressed against his chest, but found himself lulled by the steady thrum of his heart. Alexander worked to calm himself. He made out some of the things Gilbert was saying as his eyes slipped closed, “... _ blessé _ ...John…mother…”

Alexander jerked awake. His hazy vision found Gilbert’s wide eyes and John’s startled expression. Still held in Gilbert’s lap, sprawled across the floor, Alexander wrenched around, grabbing John, who had settled himself kneeling at Alexander’s side. “M-My mother.”

John’s fingers worked through the tangled mess of his hair, shushing him gently. “Alexander, please stay still. You are injured, my friend.” A whine ripped up Alexander’s scratchy throat, and John cooed, “We have you. Please, rest.”

“My mother.” Alexander struggled to explain, his eyes fluttering closed against his will. “Please...she...I cannot leave her…”

Gilbert’s voice was low. “Alexander, your mother is not here.”

“She is.” Alexander rolled away from Gilbert’s hold, pathetically pushing at his shoulders to free himself. He wriggled weakly until his ribs wrenched together and a gave a started cry. Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. “She... _ is _ here. I must…” He made to sit up. “I need to find her.”

John’s hands fell to Alexander’s shoulders. “Sit still, my friend.”

“My  _ mother _ is here!” Alexander screamed. “Back away! I must--!”

“Lafayette will find her!” John interrupted quickly. He licked his lips, looking up at Gilbert.

Gilbert gave him a strange, twisted sort-of expression, but then glanced down at Alexander and nodded curtly. “I will find  _ ta mère _ ,  _ mon petit lion _ .” He winked at Alexander before shifting him slowly into John’s outstretched arms. Gilbert hesitantly walked up the stairs. Alexander felt John shift under him, but elected to ignore the sensation, instead finally relaxing for the first time in a long time.

Alexander sagged against John. He let his head roll against the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply, deliberately, taking in the scent of gunpowder and pine and something oddly sweet that John had always carried with him, even when bathed and dressed in clothes that were not his own.

“Alexander?” John tried. Alexander hummed. John continued, “Where are you wounded? I want to take you outside, but if you are injured…”

For a moment, Alexander forgot about what John had asked, his head fogged in a haze of unbelievable warmth and comfort. But John shifted Alexander’s shoulders in his arms and Alexander’s face scrunched against the dull pain shooting down his back. “My...chest. I am unsure, now…”

“Unsure?”

“Yes.” Alexander willed his eyes to open, to focus on John’s. “My mother...Is she here?” His foggy eyes rolled to the side, glancing at the staircase. “Is she...here?”

John said, “Yes. She is upstairs. Gilbert is with her, remember?”

“Ah.” Alexander closed his eyes. “That is good.”

He barely registered the strange sensation of John’s arms worming under his knees and shoulders, hauling him closer to his chest before slowly easing him off the cold floor and in the air. Pinches of pain started Alexander, but he went with John without resistance, going limp, his head lolling back as he sighed shallowly.

“Alexander?” John’s voice sounded tight. “Are you all right?”

Alexander didn’t open his eyes. He felt John stagger slowly up the steps. “...Yes.” he mumbled. Light nudged at his eyelids, blinding him even in the darkness. Upon taking another shallow breath, he could smell the crisp of autumn subsiding into winter, the crunch of the stiff leaves under John’s boots, the howl of the cold winds whipping through barren tree branches. The whinnying of horses alerted Alexander before he suddenly shifted into someone else’s arms.

“One moment,” John’s voice echoed in his head. There was a struggle, a soft grunt, before John said, “All right. Give him here.”

Elbows wrapped under his arms and hauled him up while someone else held his waist and legs. He felt himself settle against John’s chest - his scent, ever present, swirled around Alexander - and a gentle arm clasped across his stomach. Alexander’s head flopped back against John’s shoulder. “We will meet you at camp. Alert the other generals that we have taken out the captors.”

“I will.” Gilbert’s thick accent was unmistakable to Alexander. “Be careful, Laurens. He is...asleep?”

John hummed. “I believe so.”

“Then ride fast.” Gilbert’s voice grew distanced. “_C'est l'hiver._ The cold will kill him.”

John shifted. He heard nothing for a long while, save for the whistling wind, the stinging against his cheeks, before John moved again and the horse galloped forward slowly. The horse broke into a jog, rattling Alexander's broken bones. John’s jaw rested over the crown of Alexander’s head, hushing his groans of pain. “Please survive, Alexander. You are wanted, _needed_, my friend. Please survive this.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Sorry for the wait. I've been insanely busy with shifts at work; they needed extra stagehands and I'm like, "I'm technically not busy so...I guess?"
> 
> That, and man, I got my ass handed to me by someone on my last work that made me feel REALLY shitty, shooting down my confidence. I'm sure their reasoning was just as important to them as mine was to me, but it hurt nonetheless. However, I'm back on the horse! It's all good. It just...really fucking sucked for the time being and I honestly contemplated leaving my works. I'm STUPID sensitive. Time to get a thicker skin...
> 
> Again, please, if the topic/summary makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. Just don't.
> 
> Anyways, I guess whumptober will bleed into whumpnovember haha. Unless I can get caught up but, by the looks of my schedule, that likely won't happen. I'm almost A WEEK behind. Sorry! But thanks for reading!


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